


Rosemary and Asphodel

by cadastre



Series: The Flowers of April [2]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Death, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mild Gore, Violence, World War I, but not all that graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29854044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadastre/pseuds/cadastre
Summary: Prequel toMarigold and Willow.William Schofield's number comes up, and he has to make the best of what he's got.
Relationships: William Schofield/William Schofield's Wife
Series: The Flowers of April [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2194977
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Rosemary and Asphodel

The barn is burning behind them, airplane lodged firmly in amongst the timbers, the pilot sprawled on the ground where they pulled him free.

Will is getting water from the pump when he hears Tom’s shout.

He drops his helmet and turns, rifle raised instinctively. He is just in time to see a pistol in the German’s hand, Tom fumbling for it, and for the German to spot him.

He shoots the German, but not before the German gets off a round; registers something rip through him before he fires a second time and settles the matter for everyone concerned.

A pause: the pain is—the pain is unexpectedly just about the only thing he can think of, at the moment.

Will drops his rifle.

He can feel it blooming through his chest, dully centered somewhere around his gut, and he can’t stop the ragged sound of surprise and discomfort he hears himself make as he staggers backwards. Without thinking, he rips his tunic open with frantic fingers, peels the fabric away and—

—there’s blood there, lots of it, seeping into his undershirt and trousers.

“No,” he gasps, adrenaline flickering through his nerves. He’s been shot, the bloody German shot him, right in the gut and this isn’t good, this isn’t good, _this isn’t good._

“Scho?” Tom asks, running over, panic audible in the way his voice rises half an octave.

Will can’t be bothered to answer, lets himself drop to the ground instead, tries to quiet the terror thrumming through his veins because he’s been gut-shot, and he can’t panic, he can’t panic, _if he panics he is going to die._

“Oh god, Scho, no! No!” Tom cries shrilly, drops to his knees besides him, reaches like he wants to touch Will but isn’t sure what to do, agitated hands awkwardly hovering over him instead.

Will forces himself to take a deep, ragged breath, to fall still even as Tom is practically vibrating next to him.

“Tom,” he grits out, as levelly as he can against the pain. It is getting worse, is licking like flames against his diaphragm and stomach. He allows himself a muffled noise of agony, and the sound buys him enough space to think for another moment or two. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

Tom is looking around wildly, seems to not remember that bandages exist, so Will instead jerkily pulls one out himself, slaps it to his abdomen and grabs Tom’s hand to hold it in place.

“Press,” Will says as levelly as he can, hears his own voice hitch against the pressure on the wound, steels himself for what's coming next. He catches Tom’s eyes, sees him settle a little as he listens. “You have to press, Tom, or it won’t work.”

Tom presses, and Will screams.

His vision whites out briefly with the sensation, and when Will returns to his body he can feel Tom crouched next to him, can hear the other man’s uneven panting.

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” Tom is chanting as he holds the bandage in place, places a second one to go with the first, sounds like he’s choking back tears as he tries to loop Will’s arm over his shoulder to pull him upright. “You’ll be okay, Scho, can you stand? You have to stand, Scho, we have to get you to an aid post.”

Will glances down, sees a stain of red spreading rapidly, flowing over Tom’s hand and the drenched bandages.

 _It is too much blood_ , Will realizes in a detached sort of way. _It is too much blood, too fast._

It should make him panic worse, he supposes, the realization that he is going to die. But instead he finds himself calming, his ragged breaths slowing a little even against the pain pulsing through the wound in time with his heart.

 _That’s good,_ he thinks. _If I’m calmer I’ll have a little more time._

He reaches up to tap at Tom’s hand, and once Tom notices he lowers him gently back to the ground. They both pant for a moment with the stillness, silence spiraling upwards and out.

“I’m going to die.” Will tries to say it levelly, doesn’t let his voice waver much: he doesn’t want to scare Tom. Tom is too new at this, hasn’t had to say goodbye like this before. This isn’t exactly how Will would like to introduce him to it, either, but it isn’t as if he has any other options. Will still needs his help, and if he is going to get it Tom can't be panicking.

Tom still jerks as if he’s been slapped, breathing fast and unsteady.

“ _No_ ,” he says, insistent, pleading.

“Yes, I think I am. You have to get to your brother. You have to be clever about it, you have to _think_ —” There’s something falling through the air: embers? Will can’t understand what is happening, but he doesn’t have time to ask, doesn’t have the air to spare. He’s already feeling the blood loss, can feel his heart beginning to flutter faster, is having to gasp for breath, and he’s not _done_ , he can’t go yet.

Tom is cradling him, holding him in his arms, he realizes.

He doesn’t waste his breath talking, but taps at his pocket where the tobacco tin lives. Thankfully Tom understands, fishes the tin out and helps him to open it and pull out the photos.

It’s a mercy to see Ellie’s face, to see his daughters. He clenches his jaw as the pain surges, as his heart races to try to keep him alive a little longer.

“Will you write to my wife for me?”

A beat—a second, an eternity—and Tom replies in a tone that even now speaks of surprise, “You have a wife.” Another beat, and he adds, “I will.”

“Tell her I was thinking of her.” His heart aches for a moment as he thinks about Ellie’s smile, her laugh, about the fact he won’t be able to keep his promise and come back to her.

“Anything else?” He feels Tom’s chest move, as he gulps down air.

“Tell my daughters I love them.” He can feel his thoughts scattering, ball bearings rolling away over a smooth floor, and he desperately tries to gather them, tries to breathe the raw ache of the wound out through his nose.

 _And Tom_ , Will remembers with an unexpected burst of clarity. _I can’t leave Ellie and the girls for nothing. His…brother. He has to—Écoust?_

“Talk to me,” he gasps out, grabs for Tom’s hand in sudden fear. “Tell me you know the way!”

It is cold and his eyes aren’t working properly, but his ears work well enough as Tom recites the instructions, as he holds Will’s hand tightly. He is terrified of the gathering dark, but he supposes dreamily that it’s no worse than going over the top. At least there is nothing more to be afraid of, this way.

 _Ellie_ , Will thinks as the world flickers and flickers and fades.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, @ealasaid, for helping me think through what this little monstrosity would look like (and for helping me get over my reluctance to write death scenes)! Your inspiration is immensely appreciated, as always!!! <3


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